TWILIGHT OVER OMON OBIN
Treatyseed. . . A mess rivaling the likes of the worst plagued towns of Omon Obin, long had it been the capital of the Walled Dye, and long had it suffered tragedies perhaps greater than our tarnished Silver. . .
Five years, in that time I have leveraged my wit and will for the sake of the Walled Dye, the apt-named 'Tower of Silence' for which I sat idle for the better part of a century seemed to have impressed the stout folk. The name Galka Kinddrummed the Tiled Periwinkle of Healing is known to them, and it is welcome in the Walled Dye. A baron, made they me. Steward of some fortress in the wilderness for a time, another quiet time to follow the storm that was my -- Our Band of Wax and their pitched battle against the Blight. I could not refuse the offer, I could not turn down the chance to access the deep knowledge of the Deep Peoples, Jas Anthrad, Law-Giver of the Realm of Silver was surrounded thence by wise advisors and deeply-rooted confidants, my presence was not wholly required it seemed.
This was the opportunity that presented itself to me and to our cause. For a hand far more malevolent than the relative trifles of the Obin Blight had revealed itself to us. Know this, those who would hear my words, Silverthrone besieged by the risen dead, caked yet still by the earth that buried them, and the Obin Bight with its crimson blistered thralls, only a fool would consider these happenings as disconnected. A foul miasma lingers in the air at the falling of the Golden Age, and rising of the Age of Twilight.
What is this shadow? This creeping black, this cloying murk that threatens to choke the life from us. . ?
I see now why a hume as I were chosen to administer a portion of their realm. . . Treatyseed stands in ruin, caked with gore, oozing with the blood of former noble houses. On the pretenses of ushering in the new Queen, Stukos Manortouches, myself and the other barons had been summoned to the capital, only when we'd arrived, naught but two things were made clear to us. This grisly scene, and perhaps worse yet, it's maker.
The remaining dwarves looked on to the milky-amber statue in disbelief, it was a visage they had come to know in more than mere whispers. The Autumnal Kingdoms, the season of death's herald. Where commeth the man twisted in scorpion's shape, ruin is soon to follow. Word on the wind speaks this as the reason that the greenskins hordes have been quiet. Could this be the call for the Walled Dye's turn? Or perhaps something else is at play. . . Yet, hobbled there on one crutch, mine useless legs dangling as ever whilst looking upon the figure's likeness, I cannot help but feel a strange kinship. Men that have become abominable for their selfless goals. This being, they are not the one who has brought the Blight upon the world, nor responsible for the attack on the Realm of Silver, this I feel in my bones to be true. What relation they have to our hidden enemy. . . I cannot say.
'The Queen has fled to Ancientknowledge. . .'
I hear midst the doldrums.
'. . . We'd be wise to follow suit.'
Spoke another. Ancientknowledge, ever since I'd heard the name I sought to visit, to uncover the vaults of what the Dwarves may know. This seemed as good a reason as any. I made haste, quitting behind me Treatyseed, leaving the rest of the barons to what fate awaits them there. In truth, the nuances of Dwarven nobility matter not to me, I've only one mother land, and one true lord. Without delay, I set off. Called to action, uncontent to mill about at the speed of the Dwarf.
It was not long at all that, that history of the earthen-folk came to greet me. Far from my destination of Ancientknowledge, I'd found myself at the doorstep to yet another ruin midst the Perfect Horns. Perhaps no more than two-hundred years old now, yet still abandoned. Crownhalls, the City of Stone -- I ambled down into the main chamber, its immensity shook me to the heights of Dwarven masonry. A mere scribbling of mine cannot do it justice, I implore you one day visit this lonesome place and share in mine awe. For what purpose could its founders have left it to rot before a new leader of the Walled Dye was inaugurated there, I cannot say, however, it too stored knowledge. With purposeful movements, I perused the collections of its many works. Some bore the marks of great age, while others betrayed the presence of life here more recently, perhaps vagrants, perhaps the forgotten capital was not abandoned as long ago as I suspected.
My cold, pale hands caressed the codices from shelf to shelf, titles bearing words of Dwarven anatomy, their dry history, and the like, yet I do stop at one bound book, The Mystery of the Mountain Halls. It's lengthy prose captures my imaginations, folk lore of metals that gleam beyond the hue of Dwarven Steel, elusive as it is, and their methods of extraction. Fiction perhaps, but it is with such great gusto that the author writes. . . Then the next stack of tomes, these have been placed here, almost purposefully it felt. . . Concerning Rebirth, Loss and Beyond, Reflections and Errors of the Tower. . . My cursed eyes avert themselves instinctively, knowing what shadow they possess. It is unnerving, there in that great hollow hall, that knowledge of life and death lurks in these forgotten places. What I have learned without succombing to that shade is this; Mortal men have chosen this path, mortal men have beset chaos upon Orid Xem, and mortal men may be killed.
My journey was far from over, weeks had past as I traveled this countryside, while unravaged by ghoulifying plagues, these lands were yet bereft of vibrancy and life. In days long past great wars were fought here, and now all of that bloodshed was for naught. As autumn turns to winter, another ruin reveals itself to my tired, sunken eyes. 'Relicwards' spoke the runic doorway. Nearly I had passed by, close to my destination as I was, yet staring into the darkness of fortress from snow blanketed fields, something yearned for my presence beyond. A great draft blew up from the innards of the fortress, it was a constant yawning of dry, hot air. The vacuum left where it had battled with the bitter cold had simply sucked me right in.
The iconography of death littered the remains of this once great place, practically built in the shape of flesh-stripped skull. Yet I was not turned, the pulling sensation kept me moving deeper and deeper still. Down countless stairways carven of the earth to an ominous twinkle.
A strange shaft gouting warm air, its walls glittering with an almost translucent blue ore, climbing down onto one rocky outcropping, I rubbed my eyes to be sure. And there it was yet still, hot to the touch, real as the pages on the tome I'd read in Crownhalls. Adamantine, possessing now both the knowledge to process it and all the time this vitality drained corpse of a body has in the world, my pickaxe couldn't help but vibrate in my hands. Without delay I struck the steel deep into mystic material, scattering ore and rock abounds -- I could not stop, no, I lost myself in old memories long thought pushed down to the bottom of my heart.
There and then I was back, returned to the Deferent Abyss, hacking away at rubble, a pickaxe in my hand, slight of body, young of face. And surrounded by rowdy miners each and all dear to me, the only family I'd ever known. So too there was Bekdil Wavetwist, but it was not a sorrowful vision, for I had long overthrown that burden. Her soothing words and welcoming visage were all that I heard and saw, along with the clank of metal against rock.
Before I'd known it, I had hauled the raw cyan ore up to the workshop level of the abandoned fort. Set it before the tables and again began to read the tome I'd stolen away from Crownhalls, and began to work. There in that place, I had nearly forgotten my thirst, and without the rays of the sun to guide me, I'd lost all count of time. Certainly weeks rolled by in that ruin, all my will was bent upon the glorious adamantine, and for a novice craftsman, the process was agonizingly slow. All the while I felt a strange beating in my chest, one that I had not since I'd accidentally supped upon Uja Hoodbath's tainted blood.
Lo' the culmination of my efforts, weaved of the thinnest strands of adamant metals, Iral Obin, Cloak of Silver, that which will protect the law-givers of my homeland until time immemorial. Yet. . . There was more metals left unrecovered, I returned. Mined. Hauled. Extracted, again and again. The yearning portal growing ever larger as it's walls crumbled. Time continued to pass there in Relicward, cloaks for the Band of Wax were made, a new head for my pick to hasten the process, arms and armor and the like all came to fruition. Once more, for what I intended to be the final trip down those spiralling stairs, past the magma seas, the earth had crumbled 'neath my feet. Orid Xem had swallowed me whole for my greed, I fell in to the abyss below. . .
There ya go, fairly short part one. Nothing tooooo special I suppose. For reference, I mined and extracted the adamantine with Galka using advfort, thankfully all the necessary workshops were already there in Relicward. When it came to the time. . . Man. Each single raw piece of ore being smelted into wafers took 2 minutes. Then extracting each into strands took an additional 4 minutes. It was a loooong process haha.
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Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 409349 times)